


first to you.

by projectfreelancer



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: M/M, Minor Anders/Male Hawke (Dragon Age)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:06:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28448139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/projectfreelancer/pseuds/projectfreelancer
Summary: “My door is always open for you,” Fenris is saying, and now Carver is looking at him, and there is just the look in his eyes that means so little and too much all at once.
Relationships: Fenris/Carver Hawke
Comments: 3
Kudos: 18





	first to you.

**Author's Note:**

> honestly i wrote this four years ago so it may not be particularly amazing, but i've been replaying dragon age. i was reminded of how interesting i find this potential dynamic, so i figure i may as well post it.
> 
> majority of the dialogue is taken from party banter in act I.

Carver knows Hawke more than he suspects he knows himself. Carver has grown up having to sense everything Hawke  _ may _ do or  _ may _ say. His brother was a constant source of impulsiveness, sarcasm, quick-wit that could easily lead him and Bethany up in a Tower far away from the rest of them. He was years younger, but he had to learn to categorize every look that could come across Hawke. Slyness and how that meant he was about to blame Carver for something he had done. Snark and how that meant he was about to argue with an elder who should be left alone. Anger and how that could lead to cussing out suspecting Templars. He knows the in and outs of every emotion Hawke could feel— and his brother so rarely doesn't wear his heart on his sleeves.

When he sees  _ that _ type of look cross his brother’s face the minute the glowing elf rips the heart from some man, Carver cannot help but want to laugh at the situation. Of course his brother would have a thing for a man who could potentially kill him with only a single hand. 

When the glowing elf starts rattling off sentiments on the danger of magic, Carver feels the familiar worry gnaw underneath his skin. This man is a danger. This man could turn his brother in. Turn his brother in, turn the apostate Warden in, break his mother’s heart again. She has already lost one daughter; Carver will not allow magic to taint them further.

When the elf, Fenris, offers his partnership to Hawke, Carver tries to suppress the surprise. Hawke agrees because Hawke does not know when danger stands in front of him, glowing, ready to snarl at anything magic-laced. But when Fenris joins the edge of the group, where Carver always finds himself, behind all the rest of them, their eyes meet for a second. Fenris gives him a nod, and they continue on in Hawke’s footsteps.

—

It’d be too simple to say he’s intrigued by Fenris. There’s nothing that is not intriguing about Fenris: he is an elf, and Carver has not had much interaction with them besides occasional glances; he thrums and glows with lyrium unlike anything he has ever seen; he is an escaped slave with experiences none of them could ever understand; he broods and glooms almost as badly as Carver himself does. Fenris is fascinating, but it’s more than that.

Carver is always where Hawke is because Hawke is never satisfied unless Carver is trailing pathetically behind him. He’s around when they visit Danarius’ mansion where Fenris has settled into — as much as one can settle into a house swallowed by cobwebs and despair. He hears the way Hawke says things to Fenris, the way he would say things to the girls or boys he’d try to bring home while their mother was busy. He drips charm, ease, words rolling off his tongue. And Carver sees the way Fenris reacts with a slight smile, and Carver feels sick. His brother flirts with a man who easily hates everything Carver has worked to protect. 

He wants to tell his brother how stupid the whole thing is. But he suspects his brother would simply refuse to listen, as always.

—

“So... this master of yours wants your markings back? Skin and all?” Carver asks one day while they’re at the Hanging Man. Carver and Fenris are at a table away from Hawke, Varric, Isabela, Anders. Carver tries not to think about how Fenris and him are always at the edge of the rest of them. 

Fenris takes a small swallow of the beer he ordered on Varric’s tab. The sight of disgust crosses against his features, and Carver wonders if it is because of the brew or because of the question. “So his hunters told me. Unwillingly.”

Fenris is a brave man, that much Carver knows. Carver has been on the run his entire life; his sister and brother’s lives in his hands. Fenris is only responsible for his own life, but Carver thinks that might make it all the harder. “So why not cover them up? Wouldn't that make you harder to find?” Carver has tried this conversation with Hawke a billion times before:  _ hide your staff, hide your magic, for the love of Andraste stop bothering the Templars. _

“Let them come. I am not one to hide,” is the response Fenris supplies him. Carver feels his jaw clench, wonders if his brother and the elf are more alike underneath the layers of magic and scars that brand them both.

Carver, as gently as he can possibly be, says, “Still, if it were me —”

“But it’s not,” Fenris says in a tight tone. Carver falls silent. Watches as the elf takes another sip, another grimace sliding onto his face.

“You know,” Carver continues because he was never taught how to give up, “Next time we come here, if you’d like, you could bring your wine with you instead of drinking this.”

Fenris says nothing back, but his eyes linger on him a bit for the rest of the night. It is as unsettling as it feels like a victory. Towards what, Carver does not know.

—

The Wounded Coast is Carver’s least favourite area outside of Kirkwall. Too many bandits, too many mercenaries, too much sand for his liking. The bandits they fight against now kick around too much, throwing sand up with their feet, and every time Carver thinks it’s clear to open his eyes, more just clouds around him. He feels some sort of blade cross his arm, a yell emitting at that.  _ Bastard, _ Carver thinks because he can do little else. The sand is burning; his arm is burning; if he dies here in this pathetic state, Hawke will have to resurrect him just to laugh in his face.

Suddenly a force is pushing him out of the way, onto the ground, and Carver prepares for a sword to gut his stomach, or fire to engulf him, or an arrow to dig itself into his face. Instead he feels no damage, and he hears the sound of continued battling happen around him. When he chances opening his eyes, he sees the elf standing around a pile of broken bodies with blood spattered on top of his lyrium markings. His sword is heavy in his hands, and then Fenris is looking at him, and then Fenris is offering his hand to him. Carver grunts and pulls himself up, ignores the searing ache that spreads throughout his body. It’s clearly too evident still as Fenris heaves a small laugh, and Carver just glares at him for it. “A thank you would do well enough,” is all Fenris says before turning on him and making his way back to where Anders is healing a wound on Hawke’s arm; Carver’s wound goes ignored for the rest of the walk back to Kirkwall, but Fenris keeps his eyes on Carver, as if waiting to signal that he needs healing too.

—

“You know,” Carver begins one day as Fenris and Carver trail behind the group as they make their way to the bone pit, “I have never had wine. In Ferelden, we mostly just drank ale.”

When Carver looks towards Fenris, he is looking back, and there’s an amused smile playing at the very edge of his lips. “Is that so?”

Carver feels himself clearing his throat; his eyes returning to the road in front of him. “Yes, well.” He cannot think of anything more to say, anxiety swelling under his tongue and between his teeth. He knows how awkward he can be at conversation. Has had so little practice, always too busy fretting over his family, too afraid to make friends with the other children for fear they would figure out exactly what their family was hiding. He can sense Fenris stop walking, having to force himself to do so as well, eyes not looking at the other man.

“My door is always open for you,” Fenris is saying, and now Carver is looking at him, and there is just the  _ look _ in his eyes that means so little and too much all at once. Carver nods, and Fenris is walking again. They fall in line together, side-to-side.

—

Carver knows how Hawke feels. It’s evident, as always, in every way he acts or talks or moves. Fenris exists, and Hawke reacts, and Carver watches sharply from the distance.

They grow closer, anyone could easily tell it from how Fenris allows himself to  _ react _ more to Hawke. Quiet smiles, small laughs, no flinching when Hawke has a hand pressed against his arm. It’s harder to attend their gatherings at Fenris’ mansion, when Hawke seems to be pouring all his attention onto the elf. He notices, and the mage notices too. Carver prays he does not have the same look upon his face as Anders does everytime Hawke laughs at one of Fenris’ jokes:  _ envy.  _

—

Carver eventually does join Fenris at his house alone. No Hawke, no mage, no one else but the two of them and the fireplace. They drink wine, converse about the expeditions Hawke keeps planning. And though Carver would rather die than admit it, his mouth becomes a drought when he watches the way Fenris drinks and licks his lips, chasing the taste of wine leftover. The thoughts that he chases after later that night, falling into a sleep which is full of thoughts he should not have towards the man.

—

Hawke eventually ends up with the mage. Perhaps they should have all seen it coming a mile away: the way they bond over mage liberation, the way Hawke’s eyes go dark when blue cracks the mage’s skin, how Darktown had become a place they too often visited. Even though he shouldn't, he wonders if Fenris ever feels like he was played, like he is the one that Hawke should be with still.

“Charming, isn’t it?” Isabela is saying as she makes eyes at the way Anders covers Hawke with himself. They’re all again at the Hanged Man: Fenris and Carver once again distanced, but Isabela with them now. She had offered to teach them to play cards—or cheat at cards, as Carver was quickly learning.

“No,” is Fenris’ eloquent reply, and Carver barks out a laugh, supplying his own, “Seconded.”

Isabela rolls her eyes at that, shuffling the cards. “Maybe you two are jealous. Perhaps you should find yourselves someone to blow off steam with. You shouldn’t bottle everything up without letting it… explode every once in a while,” she says in  _ that _ tone which Carver had learned to mean her words are much worse than what they appear to be. 

“Are you offering?” Fenris asks. Something in Carver sharpens at the question, the easiness he asks it, the way Isabela’s eyebrows raise. 

But the woman just laughs, shaking her head. “Oh, I’m sure you two both have a perfect match out there for you.” And with a wink, she turns to go back to where Hawke and the rest are at.

Carver tries not to think about the way Fenris had looked at him after what she said.

—

When Carver is back again at Fenris’ house, he thinks:  _ We are alone. I could do it here. I could kiss him if I wanted to. Hawke isn’t here. Hawke can’t show me up here. No one else has ever chosen me over him. _

He watches Fenris drink from the wine bottle, hand delicate around the glass, lips moving as he tells a tale.

He thinks:  _ He would let me. He has to want it too. He did not choose Hawke. That has to mean something.  _

When Fenris’ eyes meet his, he feels something catch low in his stomach, something like fear, or bravery, or danger. 

—

__ ("What has magic touched that it doesn't spoil?" He had asked, and Carver wanted to say:  
  


_ You. Only you.) _

**Author's Note:**

> going off the idea that Carver didn't become a warden or templar for that last little part.


End file.
